Lil had a vivid flashback, picturing Preston’s broken body lying on the ground, her skirt hiked up, her head twisted, the strangely erotic glimpse of her stocking tops and garters, like something out of a vintage girly magazine. Women don’t wear things like that for themselves. Who was she dressing for? She looked at her cell and heard the click of keys over the line. ‘“One early line of investigation, and possible motive, centers around fraud allegations, involving improper billing to Medicaid.”’
As the words spilled from her lips, doubts hounded her – do you know this for certain? Is this libel? Hedge, Lil. Paragraph by paragraph she talked through the story, imagining that she was telling it to Ada, trying to anticipate her questions, and finding that for every sketchy fact she was able to report, dozens of unanswered questions queued behind. Occasionally Fred would interrupt for clarification, but mostly he typed and she talked.
When she got to the small-town connection between Doyle, Warren and dead Dr Trask, Fred asked, ‘Have you spoken to his son, Dennis?’
‘No, but as soon as I finish here I intend to track him down.’
‘Pity you don’t have a quote from him, you know, something about his father.’
‘I know.’ She looked up from the phone to see the female agent in her dark navy suit approach.
‘Ms Campbell? I’m Federal Agent Rebecca Cook, I need to take your statement.’
‘Of course,’ Lil said, and instead of thinking how her daughter might cast the stern-faced woman in her early forties, she tried to come up with quick descriptions for her story – seasoned veteran, being what she settled on. ‘Fred, I’ve got to go. Do you think that’s enough?’
‘I do. I’ll get it to Mr Fleming,’ he said, then hung up.
Lil felt a wave of relief as she met this new agent’s gaze. ‘I’m ready.’
A button was pressed on a tiny digital recorder, and the questions began. ‘Why were you outside Mr Doyle’s house?’
‘I’d come to get a statement from him about Nillewaug for an article.’
‘And you knew him?’
‘Not well, but socially, yes.’
‘When was the last time you’d seen him?’
‘A couple weeks ago in the grocery store.’
‘Did you talk to him then?’
‘No,’ Lil said, not sharing her memory of spotting the obese man at the deli counter of the local family-owned grocers. It had been lunch time and he’d been in front of her. Lil felt ashamed remembering the thoughts she’d had at the time as morbidly obese Wally Doyle had ordered two large submarine sandwiches. Each one of which had to be over a thousand calories.
‘When did you last speak to him?’ Agent Cook asked.
‘About four months ago when my friend’s mother was moving into Nillewaug.’
‘And what are their names?’
And so it went, as she shot question after question, Lil studied Agent Cook. The way she’d let her go off on brief tangents, but then bring her back to Wally Doyle. She honed in on the meeting with Ada, Rose and Wally Doyle around the time of Rose’s move. ‘Why would the Chief Financial Officer meet with a resident?’ she asked.
‘We were told it was part of the intake process.’
‘I see. Did residents meet with other parts of the leadership structure?’
‘It was Mr Doyle, Ms Preston and the director of nursing, Kayla Atwood.’
‘And you were there because?’
Her question trailed and Lil smiled. Oh what the hell. ‘Ada and I live together. She doesn’t drive, so I was playing chauffeur. But I stayed outside when they met with Mr Doyle.’
‘Did your friend tell you about the meeting?’
‘She did.’ Remembering how Ada and Rose had been left with strange impressions after their forty-five minutes with Mr Doyle.
Agent Cook gave a small smile, and nodded. ‘And?’
‘Ada told me it had felt like a sales pitch.’
‘Explain.’
‘Again, I wasn’t in there, but she said that Mr Doyle was pushing to get her mother’s assets divested, beyond that you’ll have to talk to her.’
‘Why would he do that?’
‘You’re asking me to speculate?’
‘Yes, and I suspect as a reporter you’ve drawn some hypotheses.’
‘What I’ve gathered is they were trying to impoverish the residents, at least on paper, and then after the look-back period had passed, bill Medicaid for nursing-home services, while continuing to bill the families for the monthly fees. This is why Nillewaug was under investigation and why your colleagues had him under surveillance.’ And that’s when a light went off. ‘Can I ask you a question?’
‘It depends,’ she said, lips tight, clearly not wanting to lose time.
‘If Wally Doyle was being watched, who else was?’ Deliberately keeping quiet about what Mattie had told her about Jim Warren’s arrest. But really, Lil thought, if the two of them warranted federal agents, why not Delia Preston?
‘Sorry.’ She shook her head. ‘I can’t tell you that. OK, let’s go back to earlier this afternoon. With as much detail as possible walk me through your every step.’
Thirty minutes later, Agent Cook clicked off her recorder and thanked Lil for her time. As Lil walked back through the gate she had a guilty twinge. You answered all her questions truthfully, and yet . . . you held back. Why? Realizing that part of it had to do with Agent Cook’s unwillingness to share information – it’s not her job. You should have brought up the three Ravens connection.
She slid behind the Lincoln’s wheel, adjusting the mirror to survey the view of Eagle’s Cairn. She looked down the crushed-shell drive that led to Jim Warren’s house, the brick chimneys the only part visible. She wondered if he knew that Wally was dead. And she wondered if he had something to do with it. With two Ravens accounted for – one dead and one under investigation for fraud – she considered her next move. Find Dennis Trask. Where would he be on the Monday after his father died? She pulled out her cell and Googled Dennis’s dealership. Several options popped up and she touched the screen activating the call for ‘corporate headquarter’. ‘Is Mr Trask in?’ she asked when the receptionist picked up.
‘Who should I say is calling?’
She disconnected, put the car in drive and shot for the expressway. As she drove, her thoughts skittered over everything she could remember about Norman Trask, his lovely wife, Kate, and their three sons. She knew that Bradley and Dr Trask would occasionally refer patients to one another, and they’d see them at church. Like everyone she knew the small-town gossip about Dennis, high school star, out of control and ends up in jail. His mother dies while he’s incarcerated – did that have something to do with it? And then he gets out and turns his life around. She knew, too, that Bradley, as the medical consultant to the high school sports teams, had treated Dennis for minor injuries. And then she recalled a conversation with Bradley at one of the games; they’d been in their usual front-row fifty-yard-line seats – courtesy of his being the team’s medical consultant. ‘Something’s off about that boy,’ he’d said.
She’d asked him ‘What do you mean?’ as Dennis had plucked Jim Warren’s spiraling pass from the air and sprinted toward a touchdown. Only now she couldn’t recall Bradley’s answer, probably obliterated by the screaming in the stands. But she pictured him shaking his head. What did you know, Bradley?
Two exits later and she took the left for the Bedford Turnpike and automotive mile, the stretch of dealers on the outskirts of Grenville. Because it’s close and convenient, and most makes are represented, it’s where pretty much everyone in town bought their cars. It’s where she’d purchased the Lincoln after Bradley’s death, and then replaced it with a newer model after it got totaled last fall. As she headed toward Trask Toyota, she noted something. The name Trask was in front of half a dozen dealerships – Trask Nissan, Trask Buick/Oldsmobile, Trask Saab/Audi and Trask Mitsubishi. Even Trask Lincoln/Mercury, which when she bought this car was still
Maybury Lincoln/Mercury. Clearly Dennis Trask was doing well, and had taken over dealerships in adjacent lots. The BMW and Mercedes dealers hadn’t yet sprouted the Trask name, but other than that . . . Interesting.
She took the left into the Trask Toyota lot, and parked in front of the expansive showroom. She glanced at a shiny blue Prius, having thought on many occasions that with escalating fuel prices she should ditch her guzzler. Problem was, Lil and Ada loved the guzzler; it’s what Bradley always drove, albeit in black, and it could fit six comfortably. Plus, as she knew from experience, it could withstand both head-on and side collisions without getting the occupants fatally squished.
Shouldering her bag she headed through the showroom and breezed past a salesman in a crisp navy suit and starched white shirt. She didn’t have a clear plan as she made toward a corridor with a sign that read ‘owner’, on the way passing a waiting area with magazines and the morning paper with her cover story and pictures of the fire. She wondered if Dennis had seen it and was thinking through the options of how to get the man to talk to her, when her gaze shifted to the right, and there he was, moving fast through a side door.
‘Dennis!’ Lil shouted, having not really looked at him in a few decades, but remembering the strapping red-headed athlete he’d been. But now, still well over six foot, where he’d been all lean muscle he had a comfortable middle-aged spread. His charcoal-gray suit jacket unbuttoned, his burgundy tie clipped to a white shirt that bulged over his belt. Most of the red gone in his silvery buzz cut.
He turned, stopped. ‘Mrs Campbell?’
‘Dennis,’ she said, going over to him, extending a hand. ‘I’m so sorry.’ Taking his hand, and holding it in both of hers. She could see he was taken aback, common courtesy forcing him to respond.
‘Thank you,’ he said, ‘it’s pretty awful.’
‘I can’t imagine what you’re going through. Your dad . . . I’m so sorry. And then poor Wally.’ Her eyes fixed on his, gauging his response. His shoulders sagged and he glanced toward the door.
‘Thank you. He was a good friend. I’ve got to go.’
‘Of course,’ she replied as dozens of questions shot to mind. Foremost of which was: how the hell did you know Wally Doyle is dead? ‘Do you know when the funeral is?’
He turned, met Lil’s gaze. He squinted. ‘My brother’s arranging it, I’m certain it will be in the paper.’ And quickly added: ‘Wally’s wife, Jen told me about Wally . . . in case you were wondering. I’ve got to go.’ And he abruptly turned and exited the dealership.
As she watched him leave she spotted Mattie and her tall young partner approach him as he was opening the door of a dark green Lexus. Mattie showed her badge, as Lil fished out her camera. And then realized Ada had it. ‘Damn,’ she muttered, touching the camera app on her phone. The resolution wasn’t good enough, not to mention the glare through the dealership windows. Nevertheless she started to shoot while heading in their direction. She was out the door and closing in when Mattie spotted her.
‘Sorry, Lil,’ she said. ‘No reporters.’
There was no mistaking the rage in Dennis Trask’s face as he glared first at Mattie and then at Lil. If looks could kill, Lil mused, we’d both be dead. But why me? What did I do? Was there something in the article?
‘Are you arresting him?’ she asked, as her right thumb touched the screen to take a shot.
‘No, Lil, just questioning. And sorry,’ she said with finality, ‘no reporters.’
SIXTEEN
Dennis Trask trailed the detectives in his Lexus, for a drive that ended in the familiar lot of the Grenville PD. ‘Just questioning,’ he reminded himself, and then ran the evidence to support that conclusion. The short boxy woman detective saying they wanted to ask him about his father and the fire, and offering him the choice of driving with them or following behind. If this were to end in an arrest they’d never risk him in his own vehicle. ‘Of course,’ he’d said, ‘anything to help.’ Running, he knew, would be stupid, like painting a target on his back. And for what? Not that he hadn’t done quite a bit that was outside the law; he flipped through recent infractions, mostly with prostitutes of legal age. He always checked ID and the girls would never report him, no matter how badly they got hurt. And his financial schemes, especially with Wally and Delia dead, were untraceable. The one potential weakness, and why he intended to get more information than give, had to do with his good buddy Jimbo Warren. It made him nervous knowing Jim was in custody, but unlike Wally, Warren was smart. The question was, would he keep his mouth shut or, if given the chance, cut a deal and rat him out?
He parked and got out of the car, and gave a sad smile in the direction of the female detectives. The curly haired short one nodded back, and the freakishly tall young one with the ponytail was already heading toward the door. Both dykes, he mused, what other woman becomes a cop? Or thinking about the few mannish female prison guards he’d met – had to be dykes. But the young one, maybe a few years younger and he’d do her. Bet she’d struggle, he thought, checking her muscular forearms and ridiculously long legs. Pity she’s not blonde. He took a deep breath and felt the afternoon sun on his face. Looking at the brick police department felt like old times, trying to remember his last visit inside over thirty years ago.
He strode toward the door the short detective was holding for him. ‘Thanks.’ He walked in noting the battered oak counter and waxed linoleum floor. To the right were the holding cells where he’d spent several nights waiting for his dad to pick him up, and once . . . well, that had been a real bad time. Knowing that he’d done something stupid and nothing his father or the attorneys at Windham, Porter and Smith could do about it. Third DUI in Connecticut was a mandatory year in prison, no exceptions and off he’d gone to Osborn.
‘This way,’ Detective Perez said, leading him to the left.
He followed, checking out the two uniformed officers and the clerk behind the counter. None of them old enough to remember him.
‘Hello Dennis,’ said a familiar voice and he looked up to see Hank Morgan. ‘I’m sorry to hear about your dad.’
‘Thanks.’ A surge of fury and fear behind his eyes, as memories flooded in. Screw you, Hank, you’ve got nothing on me. I did not start that fucking fire, but I bet I know who did . . . and once I know for sure, they will pay.
‘Can I have someone get you a water, a coffee?’
‘Coffee would be good,’ he said, meeting Hank’s sad expression with one of his own. What a difference a few decades make, he thought, remembering a much younger Hank Morgan when he’d been Grenville’s first chief of police.
He took a seat at the long table in the interview room, noting the clock was different and the chairs had been replaced with a set of black chrome and vinyl stackers. The two women detectives sat on the other side and Hank settled at the head of the table. The receptionist from behind the front counter appeared with a carafe of coffee and disposable cups.
‘We realize you’ve got a lot on your plate,’ Detective Perez began. ‘But as you’re aware we have a multi-fatality fire and a homicide.’
‘Lil Campbell’s article said it was arson.’ Dennis gritted his teeth, wanting them to see outrage. ‘If that’s true, my father was murdered. So yes –’ tears in his eyes – ‘I have a lot on my plate, but nothing is more important than catching my father’s killer. So ask your questions.’ His words were choked and bitter.
Mattie nodded. ‘When did you last see your father?’
‘Saturday morning,’ he said, and he described their routine of Skyping. And sensing the detective’s next question as to why he didn’t just visit his father, he added, ‘It was less stressful for both of us. I hated to see the way he lived, and he hated that I hated it. So we Skyped once a week and then I’d take him out with my family for Tuesday night supper. That way we could pretend the problem didn’t exist.’
‘The hoarding?’
‘Yes, and he couldn’t stand that word. To him it was all necessary. The place w
as disgusting. When my mother was alive she managed to keep it contained, but after her death . . .’ Dennis stared at his hands, the memory of the fire too real, the call from Wally: ‘Dennis, it’s bad.’ He looked at Hank and then at the short detective who appeared in charge. ‘What makes you think it’s arson?’
Detective Perez held his gaze. Her words were slow and measured: ‘Too coincidental with the murder of Delia Preston, and the presence of accelerant.’
‘You know I was there?’ he asked, figuring the best approach was to be honest . . . at least where he could.
‘Yes, according to several witnesses you were instrumental in helping many of the residents out of the building.’
‘I couldn’t get to him,’ he said, remembering the awful frustration. ‘It was too hot, and the smoke; I couldn’t breathe. I tried . . .’
‘Your father?’
‘Yes, it was too hot on the second floor, I tried . . . it was too hot. I kept hoping he’d made it out before I got there. I tried, when I opened the door to his hall, like a wall of heat; there was no way. I ran around the outside as the first fire trucks arrived. I showed them where his apartment was; the windows were blown out, and there were flames and the smoke was so thick. I knew then that if he hadn’t made it out he was gone.’ Tears of rage and frustration flowed. ‘The smoke was black, that’s why you think an accelerant was used.’ He looked at her, not wiping his cheeks.
Best Place to Die Page 15
